The Wake-Up Call(71)

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? ? ? ? ?

“Oh my god. You had sex with him in his car?”

I rest my head on Smartie’s steering wheel for a moment. I’m held at some lights and Jem is on speakerphone on the passenger seat. “I actually cannot believe myself,” I say. “We were on a public road.”

“Izzy! I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Neither did I! But he got me so het up.”

Jem laughs. “Het up. You are adorable. Well, I’m happy for you. Assuming it was great. Was it great?”

I swallow, switching into first as the lights change. It was great. Dizzyingly, disconcertingly great. We were squashed into a car with the steering wheel digging into my back, still half dressed in our uniforms, but I had never been less aware of my surroundings. I could have been anywhere. And every sensation was amplified, dreamlike. My forehead to his, his hands gripping my waist, the way he shifted underneath me as if he knew precisely what I needed, even if I wouldn’t have been able to tell him myself.

“It was intense,” I tell her, exhaling as I speed along to the hotel. I’m early. I’m never this early, but I just couldn’t sleep. “I guess because we hate each other so much, it kind of multiplied everything? That’s such an intense feeling, right, and there’s always been that fire between us. Maybe angry sex is actually the best sex?”

“Uh-huh,” Jem says slowly.

“You don’t think so?”

“Well, no, actually, but it’s more that . . . I’m not sure you really hate each other, do you?”

That pulls me up short—I notice I’m going seventy and make a face, braking.

“?’Course we do. He was such a dick to me last Christmas, don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” she says. “But maybe you’ve forgiven him for it.”

“What! I have not.” I’m quite affronted. “He’s not even apologised—or offered any sort of explanation!”

“OK, well, I know you tend to hold a grudge like Gollum with something shiny . . . but have you actually asked him what happened, pigeon? Maybe he didn’t get your card.”

I have wishfully considered this option many times in the last year. In the immediate aftermath of the mistletoe incident, I was so sure this was the explanation that I hunted Poor Mandy down at home to ask her again—was she certain she gave my card to Lucas? Did he definitely read it?

And she’d said yes, he read it. And laughed.

“He got the card,” I say, swallowing. I don’t like thinking about it, not when my body is still soft and sore and satisfied from last night. “Anyway, I’ve not even told you the worst part. The breakdown cover turned up early . . .”

“Oh no.”

“Not that bad. I was back in my seat.” I’m wincing at the memory of the woman’s face, how amused she’d been by my ruffled hair and red cheeks. “But she offered to give me a lift back to my car as they’d be a while fixing Lucas’s, so I just said bye to Lucas and left with her.”

“How did you say bye to him?” Jem asks.

“Oh, weird wave.”

“Little pigeon.” Jem’s voice is infused with warmth, and it makes me miss her more than ever. “You are too cute.”

“Embarrassing, you mean. It was great, though: I just went home and had a bath and did my own thing! I think casual one-time sex is the way forward for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Why not?”

“Well, maybe I’m not the best person to ask . . .”

“You’re always the best person to ask,” I say.

“You are well aware this would never happen to me,” Jem says, amused. “I cannot even conceive of it, Izz.”

Jem is demisexual, as in, she’s only attracted to people when she’s formed an emotional connection with them first. Great sex with someone you hate is a total contradiction in terms for her, I guess.

“Do you think I’ve been really stupid?” I say. “Do you think I shouldn’t have had sex with him?”

“Of course not! I’m not judging, not ever, you know that. I’m just not convinced you’re getting what you want from a relationship, here. You’re . . . cosy, Izzy. You’ve always wanted a partner who wears woolly jumpers and has a nice smile and a lovely family.”

I wish she’d not said cosy. It takes me right back to that bloody Christmas card again.

“Well, it’s not a relationship anyway, so no need to worry,” I remind her. “Now . . . speaking of lovely families,” I say, dodging a pothole.

“Don’t. I’m actually on the sidewalk outside the house with Piddles, in the very spot where I used to smoke as a teenager and dream of running away. Some things never change.”

“You know, you can run. You’re a grown-up now. You don’t have to spend the holidays with them just because you’ve ended up back in Washington. They make you miserable, Jem.”

“Oh, but they’re my family,” Jem says, and I can hear that she’s rubbing her forehead, the way she always does when she’s feeling guilty or sad. “I’m lucky to have them.”

I know what she means. When you don’t have yours.